Traditions - those little pieces that connect a family, and ripple outward to connect a community, a race, a religion. Tradition.
There was a tradition when I was growing up, that of baking Grandma's Christmas Cookies every year. Ostensibly, the cookies were baked as gifts to neighbors and friends. In reality, very few ever left the home. What didn't get eaten as raw dough and apricot filling, was eagerly devoured by six kids, fighting for the 'perfect' cookie. Grandma's Christmas Cookies are of Hungarian origin, as she was Hungarian. She taught it to my mother, who in turn taught it to me. My recipe is writ in my grandmother's hand, and I cherish it more with every passing year.
I added another cookie to the Sacred Christmas Cookie List - the Russian Teacake. Oft mistaken for a Mexican Wedding Cookie, the teacake is much more moist, practically melting in your mouth. My Russian Teacake recipe is stained with decades of butter smears from my hands as I roll the cookie dough, powdered sugar tracks embedded in the 3x5 index card. And, by the time the recipe finally resides in the hands of my daughter, she'll most likely be hard-pressed to read it, through the stains and smears.
Traditions.
The tradition shifted slightly from my mother and myself, to the next generation, myself and my daughter. Rather than showing Jordan the nuances of a yeast dough, the simple delight in getting your hands in the dough, watching the marriage of butter, sugar, and flour, smelling the yeast as warm milk is added to activate it, the prep for the baking is done alone. Well, save for my dog. My kitchen is destroyed, powdered sugar flies everywhere, pots nestle dirty atop the stove. And I swear I wash my hands a million times, as I dip in and out of the dough, ensuring it's been kneaded - enough. If you're not a baker, that comment will not make sense. 'Of course it's enough,' the non-baker would say. Ah, but the baker ... the baker would feel for elasticity, fingers cleverly seeking out unblended pieces of yeast, bits of flour that stand alone, when it should all be perfectly integrated to the butter and sugar, a hint of salt where there should never be one. The perfect consistency, something hard to gauge before the cold dough recipe has been thoroughly chilled - yet, if it isn't right, the cold dough, after being thoroughly chilled, will not have the perfect roundness of flavor, perfect flexibility of dough, that it should. Balance .... the baker will tell you it's all about balance. And sometimes, the balance is not in the recipe, but rather in the baker's ability to interpret the recipe correctly.
This is known as 'the night before'. Dough gets made for Grandma's Christmas Cookies and for the Russian Teacakes. My kitchen gets cleaned. And then I usually wash the clothing I was wearing and take a shower, because everything is coated in flour, sugar, salt, egg debris, a bit of warm milk, yeast that is now trying to rise on the leg of my jeans .... I never said I was neat!
Traditions.
The day of - apricots cooked down, board prepared with flour and sugar, cold dough taken out in handfuls. The rolling, the cutting, the stuffing and folding, until the apricot cookie is a small pillow waiting to be devoured. Jordan comes in at some point, sits close enough to snack on the cold dough, nibble the cooked apricots, and sample the finished product. She doesn't roll out the dough, press the top of the pillow into granulated sugar, put it on the cookie sheet, check the oven and turn the cookies as they bake. But .... she is there. We talk, we laugh, she makes fun of me when I mess up. And so December comes to life in my home.
The Russian Teacake has its own ritual, every bit as important to me as the ritual of Grandma's Christmas Cookies. I cannot remember where the recipe stemmed from, I only remember I've been making these cookies for at least thirty years. And the ritual for the Teacakes is wrapped in my daughter. When she went to college, my first visit up to San Francisco included a double batch of Russian Teacakes - her favorite. When she was moving to Los Angeles, one of the last things I made for her in my kitchen was a batch of Russian Teacakes. And every year, the two cookies I make, without fail, are Grandma's Christmas Cookies - a tradition from my childhood, and Russian Teacakes - a tradition from her childhood.
Tradition.
This year, there will be three generations of children related to my Grandmother - my mother, myself, and my daughter - sitting around the table to bake these two recipes. My daughter has already informed me that it will be sheer bliss, just sitting and watching the two of us, eating the cookies as they cool.
For me, it will be a circle of love - from my mother's kitchen, to my kitchen, to my daughter's kitchen.
Tradition.
A heart smile.
May your Traditions resonate with love.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Dinner!
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| Dinner! ! ! |
Suddenly this has become (again) an important part of my dietary repertoire.
Tonight, I decided to use the yellow squash, zucchini, tomato and mushroom I'd purchased Monday after work. The meat to this dish was beef. Not filet, but a much less expensive cut of beef. One I was learning how to cook, how to manipulate, so as to get a tender mouth feel, a deep rich taste.
The meal -
begin with Plugra unsalted butter in my iron skillet and add a touch of Lucina olive oil. When the butter begins to sizzle, add the garlic (because everything tastes better with garlic). Lightly brown the garlic, then toss the meat into the mix. Sear the beef. Which means maybe three minutes total time in the skillet, really more like two minutes, with a lot of flipping around to keep from burning. Take the meat out, add the mushrooms, and a lot more butter, just a touch of oil to keep the butter from burning. The mushrooms take in the bulk of the butter, plumping up, filling out, becoming so tender, so juicy, it's practically criminal. Once the mushrooms have married to the butter, add the zucchini and yellow squash, touch more butter. I seasoned with white pepper, and cinnamon. It sounds crazy, I know, the cinnamon. Oh, but boys and girls, it was anything but, I promise. Let the squash simmer with the mushrooms for a few minutes, then add the fresh tomato. I used small vine-grown tomatoes, cut into quarters. As the tomato cooked down, I'd grab the skin and discard. No 'extra' in my pan! I turned down the heat, let everything simmer until the tomatoes were fully integrated into the dish. Now, to finish.
I opened a bottle of Ken Brown 2012 Nielsen Vineyard Pinot Noir - a young, impudent wine with a really round mouth feel, and just a hint of cinnamon - and liberally filled the skillet with this red wine. Heat turned back up, wine cooked down. Beef thrown back into the mix to absorb the wine flavor notes, and a few minutes later, presto! bingo! dinner was done.
Looking at the vegetables and meat in the pan had my mouth watering, but something was missing. Not wanting rice or pasta, I struggled with how to serve it. And then I opened my refrigerator, and there on the top shelf was a container of baby spinach. Of course! Serve this earthy goodness on top of greens, and grate fresh cheese - just a tad - over the mix.
All I have to say is this: Oh. My. God.
SO damn good! So damn easy! So damn fast.
I admit - I love food. It's a weakness of mine. And when it comes together in such a brilliant, healthy manner, well, I love it even more.
Here's to dinner!
Friday, April 11, 2014
Simple Food Made Simply
As y'all know, I truly, dearly, deeply love to cook. I cook for friends and family, and I'm finally learning to cook for me, too. The one thing I don't do much of is shop. Put me in a grocery store and I'm like a mini tornado; all I want to do is get in and get out, wreaking as much damage to my budget along the way as possible.
I used to do 'meal planning', you know the sort I mean. Where you list out all the meals you're going to prepare for the next seven days, drive to the store with your 'organized by category' list - i.e., dairy, vegetables, meat, etc. - and slowly peruse the grocery aisles until every item on the list is checked off. And that is a fine and noble way to shop. Unless you happen to be me. I plan the meals, create my lists, dutifully shop to accommodate said lists, get home, unpack, and I'm ready for the week. Right? Oh, so very wrong. Let's just say I'd decided, on Saturday when I created the menus, wrote out my lists, did my shopping, and put all the food away, that Monday night was going to be lightly sauteed spinach, a grilled chicken breast, and some green beans. Great - two greens, a bit of protein, perfectly Atkins-balanced meal. Except Monday rolls around, I've had a long day, and the idea of eating anything even remotely healthy is enough to make me swear off both eating, and cooking, forever. So I order a large pizza, sausage, pepperoni, black olive. Large, you ask? For one person? Well, ever thrifty, I'll freeze most of it and take it out in two-piece increments to consume later. Except that I decide I don't want to eat the pizza alone and invite my neighbors over, and pretty soon the healthy and nutritious meal, which I've already paid for, if you recall, is a thing of the past, and beer, bourbon and pizza abound.
Ahem. Yes, so I rarely plan meals beyond, 'sure, I could eat that'.
Last night, in the spirit of 'sure, I could eat that', I dug into my refrigerator. Rather dismal sight, the inside of my refrigerator. Eggs and butter are immediately visible. There is a red box that proclaims chocolate lie within. The box misrepresents - what lie within is EVER so much better than chocolate - what lie within is a cigar from my friend Peter. Water, two pitchers, rest on the bottom shelf. The door shelves hold pickles, olives, condiments, V-8 and half and half. That is about the extent of what is readily visible in my refrigerator. The meat drawer holds three cheeses - Monterey Jack, Asiago, and Romano - as well as thinly-sliced turkey breast, bacon, and pork tenderloin. The vegetable drawers hold one head of Romaine lettuce, a mostly-eaten head of iceberg lettuce, two zucchini, two yellow squash, green beans, and mushrooms. The bowl that holds things like garlic and onions and tomatoes has three tomatoes and three gloves of garlic and one scallion. From the meat and vegetable drawer, as well as the vegetable bowl, I need to create dinner. Oh - and even though I have both rice and rissotto, this is a no-starch dinner. (See the Atkins comment above.)
Grabbing my iron skillet, I pour about a teaspoon of olive oil into the pan, put the heat on medium, and plop about a teaspoon and a half of butter (lightly salted) into the oil. While the butter is melting, I grind fresh nutmeg into the pan, add basil and thyme and a dash of white pepper, turn the heat down just a touch, and slice the pork tenderloin into half-inch thick medallions. These go into the pan, searing both sides, and then come out. As the pork sears, the mushrooms get sliced. When the pork is done, more oil, more butter, and more of the spices go into the pan, and then the mushrooms get added to the lovely butter-spice blend. Cook down slightly, and as they cook, one each of the zucchini and yellow squash get chopped, added to the butter- mushroom-spice mix. A bit more butter, but not too much, stir around. Chop the three tomatoes, add to veggie mix, stir carefully. Turn the heat down even more, let tomatoes 'stew'. As they cook, I remove the skin when it falls from the meat of the tomato. I've yet to taste anything; instead, I'm going by smell and feel. The base is now rich in vegetable juices, grounded in the juice from the searing of the pork medallions. I put the seven medallions (yes, Tuck got a pork medallion mixed in with his dinner) into the vegetable mix, being sure the pork rests against the bottom of the skillet, and cover each piece with some of the veggies. Turning off the heat, I put a lid over the skillet so that the pork will finish cooking in the ambient heat.
I serve up three medallions with vegetables, grate fresh Asiago cheese over the mix, and sit down with a glass of (diet) Iced Tea at my table to enjoy the meal.
It was so good that I'm actually going to eat the leftovers tonight for dinner - something I rarely, if ever, do, unless it's pizza or Chinese that someone else made.
Simple food, made simply ....
I used to do 'meal planning', you know the sort I mean. Where you list out all the meals you're going to prepare for the next seven days, drive to the store with your 'organized by category' list - i.e., dairy, vegetables, meat, etc. - and slowly peruse the grocery aisles until every item on the list is checked off. And that is a fine and noble way to shop. Unless you happen to be me. I plan the meals, create my lists, dutifully shop to accommodate said lists, get home, unpack, and I'm ready for the week. Right? Oh, so very wrong. Let's just say I'd decided, on Saturday when I created the menus, wrote out my lists, did my shopping, and put all the food away, that Monday night was going to be lightly sauteed spinach, a grilled chicken breast, and some green beans. Great - two greens, a bit of protein, perfectly Atkins-balanced meal. Except Monday rolls around, I've had a long day, and the idea of eating anything even remotely healthy is enough to make me swear off both eating, and cooking, forever. So I order a large pizza, sausage, pepperoni, black olive. Large, you ask? For one person? Well, ever thrifty, I'll freeze most of it and take it out in two-piece increments to consume later. Except that I decide I don't want to eat the pizza alone and invite my neighbors over, and pretty soon the healthy and nutritious meal, which I've already paid for, if you recall, is a thing of the past, and beer, bourbon and pizza abound.
Ahem. Yes, so I rarely plan meals beyond, 'sure, I could eat that'.
Last night, in the spirit of 'sure, I could eat that', I dug into my refrigerator. Rather dismal sight, the inside of my refrigerator. Eggs and butter are immediately visible. There is a red box that proclaims chocolate lie within. The box misrepresents - what lie within is EVER so much better than chocolate - what lie within is a cigar from my friend Peter. Water, two pitchers, rest on the bottom shelf. The door shelves hold pickles, olives, condiments, V-8 and half and half. That is about the extent of what is readily visible in my refrigerator. The meat drawer holds three cheeses - Monterey Jack, Asiago, and Romano - as well as thinly-sliced turkey breast, bacon, and pork tenderloin. The vegetable drawers hold one head of Romaine lettuce, a mostly-eaten head of iceberg lettuce, two zucchini, two yellow squash, green beans, and mushrooms. The bowl that holds things like garlic and onions and tomatoes has three tomatoes and three gloves of garlic and one scallion. From the meat and vegetable drawer, as well as the vegetable bowl, I need to create dinner. Oh - and even though I have both rice and rissotto, this is a no-starch dinner. (See the Atkins comment above.)
Grabbing my iron skillet, I pour about a teaspoon of olive oil into the pan, put the heat on medium, and plop about a teaspoon and a half of butter (lightly salted) into the oil. While the butter is melting, I grind fresh nutmeg into the pan, add basil and thyme and a dash of white pepper, turn the heat down just a touch, and slice the pork tenderloin into half-inch thick medallions. These go into the pan, searing both sides, and then come out. As the pork sears, the mushrooms get sliced. When the pork is done, more oil, more butter, and more of the spices go into the pan, and then the mushrooms get added to the lovely butter-spice blend. Cook down slightly, and as they cook, one each of the zucchini and yellow squash get chopped, added to the butter- mushroom-spice mix. A bit more butter, but not too much, stir around. Chop the three tomatoes, add to veggie mix, stir carefully. Turn the heat down even more, let tomatoes 'stew'. As they cook, I remove the skin when it falls from the meat of the tomato. I've yet to taste anything; instead, I'm going by smell and feel. The base is now rich in vegetable juices, grounded in the juice from the searing of the pork medallions. I put the seven medallions (yes, Tuck got a pork medallion mixed in with his dinner) into the vegetable mix, being sure the pork rests against the bottom of the skillet, and cover each piece with some of the veggies. Turning off the heat, I put a lid over the skillet so that the pork will finish cooking in the ambient heat.
I serve up three medallions with vegetables, grate fresh Asiago cheese over the mix, and sit down with a glass of (diet) Iced Tea at my table to enjoy the meal.
It was so good that I'm actually going to eat the leftovers tonight for dinner - something I rarely, if ever, do, unless it's pizza or Chinese that someone else made.
Simple food, made simply ....
Friday, April 4, 2014
Pieces and Parts
It's oft been said that 'home is where the heart is'. As I look around the huge room that encompasses work, reading, talking, eating, kitchen .... in short, life, I see echoes of everyone who has ever mattered to me. Just as people leave footprints on our hearts, so too do gifts leave footprints on our space.
I'm sitting in a chair my daughter and I found at an antique store in LA after breakfast one morning. This will always and forever more be 'Jordan's chair'. Beside that chair is a low table, music system tucked on the shelf. Atop the table is a beautiful bowl my mother made, flanked in the back by two hanging globes to shield a tealight candle, given to me by an ex-boss. Oh - the hanging globes are draped with initials - one has 'N', 'M', 'M', and the other has 'J', 'C'. One side is mine - Natalie, Misty, Matilda (both dogs now gone), the other is my daughter's - Jordan, Cali. We need to add initials - T for Tucker to mine, G for Gideon to Jordan's. And on the other side of the table is my father's chair, no longer a brown corduroy, now a gorgeous, supple red leather. In this one alcove I have father, mother, daughter. And this is only one little piece of my home. I look to the sitting area, see the hope chest I've had since forever, the same one Jordan's dad protected with about a million coats of shellac well before we were even married - and if anyone is doing the math, we were married in 1983. Making the hope chest appear even more rich, more sumptuous, is a rug given to me by my dear friends here in the Valley. The rug warms the entire room, pulls the eye, encourages one to sit, stay. Simple, life changing. Glancing upward at the walls, each mask tells a story - and most of the masks were given to me by friends and family.
There is not one place the eye can land that doesn't resonate with someone's heart stamp.
Interestingly enough, the bedroom has but two pieces of artwork. One is a HUGE rendering of a woman, back to the viewer, draped in a sheet that covers her hips. Her hair is piled atop her head, and you see a bit of her profile. It's primarily the back, the lean length of thigh, that the viewer sees. It's beautiful - I fell in love with her and coveted her for a year before the purchase was finally made. And now she adorns the bedroom wall, the first thing you see when you walk into my apartment, since the bedroom door is always open. The second piece of artwork is a photo taken by a friend of mine entitled 'Coyote, Tree, Moon'. Elegant in its stark simplicity, the light that perfect twilight, leaching out of the sky, darkening against the earth.
Home. Heart.
A painting of a tulip, my favorite flower, given me by a talented writer friend - this gorgeous tulip was painted in one night. And, across the wall from the painting, is a tulip given me by my daughter, a tulip which sat on my desk in Cleveland, a tulip that, when I would look at it, I saw not the deep red of the tulip, but the brilliant smile of my blond daughter.
Home. Heart.
A drawing of a woman in a red dress, leaping, exultant, above the earth - given to me by the same loving friends who allowed my sweet Mist to be buried on their property. She entitled it 'The Point of No Return'. It was given to me shortly after my second divorce. And when I look at her, I see joy, excitement, passion.
Home. Heart.
We can't even GO into the kitchen ..... nearly every single thing in my kitchen, from silverware all the way through to my pots and pans, has a story. I could bore you to tears with the stories. And yet, when I take out my HUGE iron skillet, the same HUGE iron skillet that my mother and father used to prepare countless meals for the six of us kids growing up, it's not just that meal I think about. It's all the meals that came before it, all the cupboards in which that iron skillet has been nestled. And when I take out the hand-held blender I have, I always smile. It's probably one of the very first models ever made - and it's given to me by the queen of microwave cooking. I kid you not, this woman can create a gourmet feast using only the microwave. For one such as I, who loves to cook, loves the entire sensuous aspect of cooking, from choosing the foods, to the cutting, slicing, dicing, to the beginning notes of butter and oil heating up, all the way through to the finished product on the plate, I never thought I'd say microwave cooking was good. But when she does it, it's amazing.
Home. Heart.
Pieces and parts, whose sum is ever so much greater than the whole of the parts.
I'm sitting in a chair my daughter and I found at an antique store in LA after breakfast one morning. This will always and forever more be 'Jordan's chair'. Beside that chair is a low table, music system tucked on the shelf. Atop the table is a beautiful bowl my mother made, flanked in the back by two hanging globes to shield a tealight candle, given to me by an ex-boss. Oh - the hanging globes are draped with initials - one has 'N', 'M', 'M', and the other has 'J', 'C'. One side is mine - Natalie, Misty, Matilda (both dogs now gone), the other is my daughter's - Jordan, Cali. We need to add initials - T for Tucker to mine, G for Gideon to Jordan's. And on the other side of the table is my father's chair, no longer a brown corduroy, now a gorgeous, supple red leather. In this one alcove I have father, mother, daughter. And this is only one little piece of my home. I look to the sitting area, see the hope chest I've had since forever, the same one Jordan's dad protected with about a million coats of shellac well before we were even married - and if anyone is doing the math, we were married in 1983. Making the hope chest appear even more rich, more sumptuous, is a rug given to me by my dear friends here in the Valley. The rug warms the entire room, pulls the eye, encourages one to sit, stay. Simple, life changing. Glancing upward at the walls, each mask tells a story - and most of the masks were given to me by friends and family.
There is not one place the eye can land that doesn't resonate with someone's heart stamp.
Interestingly enough, the bedroom has but two pieces of artwork. One is a HUGE rendering of a woman, back to the viewer, draped in a sheet that covers her hips. Her hair is piled atop her head, and you see a bit of her profile. It's primarily the back, the lean length of thigh, that the viewer sees. It's beautiful - I fell in love with her and coveted her for a year before the purchase was finally made. And now she adorns the bedroom wall, the first thing you see when you walk into my apartment, since the bedroom door is always open. The second piece of artwork is a photo taken by a friend of mine entitled 'Coyote, Tree, Moon'. Elegant in its stark simplicity, the light that perfect twilight, leaching out of the sky, darkening against the earth.
Home. Heart.
A painting of a tulip, my favorite flower, given me by a talented writer friend - this gorgeous tulip was painted in one night. And, across the wall from the painting, is a tulip given me by my daughter, a tulip which sat on my desk in Cleveland, a tulip that, when I would look at it, I saw not the deep red of the tulip, but the brilliant smile of my blond daughter.
Home. Heart.
A drawing of a woman in a red dress, leaping, exultant, above the earth - given to me by the same loving friends who allowed my sweet Mist to be buried on their property. She entitled it 'The Point of No Return'. It was given to me shortly after my second divorce. And when I look at her, I see joy, excitement, passion.
Home. Heart.
We can't even GO into the kitchen ..... nearly every single thing in my kitchen, from silverware all the way through to my pots and pans, has a story. I could bore you to tears with the stories. And yet, when I take out my HUGE iron skillet, the same HUGE iron skillet that my mother and father used to prepare countless meals for the six of us kids growing up, it's not just that meal I think about. It's all the meals that came before it, all the cupboards in which that iron skillet has been nestled. And when I take out the hand-held blender I have, I always smile. It's probably one of the very first models ever made - and it's given to me by the queen of microwave cooking. I kid you not, this woman can create a gourmet feast using only the microwave. For one such as I, who loves to cook, loves the entire sensuous aspect of cooking, from choosing the foods, to the cutting, slicing, dicing, to the beginning notes of butter and oil heating up, all the way through to the finished product on the plate, I never thought I'd say microwave cooking was good. But when she does it, it's amazing.
Home. Heart.
Pieces and parts, whose sum is ever so much greater than the whole of the parts.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Happy Mardi Gras 2014!
Had
a dinner party this past Sunday night - Mardi Gras (moved from Tuesday
due to illness). My contribution to the dinner was chicken-sausage file
gumbo and King Cake. Oh, and dirty martinis.
The day went like this: grocery shop at 9, while the first load of laundry gets washed downstairs. Back home, load wet clothes and dirty clothes into the Kia, put dog into back, and beat feet over to Chris & Ginny Burroughs house, where they were gracious enough to let me use their laundry equipment. Okay, dryer going, washer going, dog back in car, home to climb nineteen steps, and begin the prep work for the gumbo. But I couldn't really get to the prep work, because I couldn't get to the sink. First I had to clean my kitchen.
Loads changed, dog runs around back yard, home again, climbing those damn nineteen steps again with a load of clean sheets in my arms. Prep work can now begin. Green onions, onions, garlic, green pepper, parsley. Of all of that, I really only like garlic. Talk to a true Cajun, though, and you'll be told over and over the Holy Trinity of roux - garlic, onion, green pepper. Cut up chicken, slice ham, slice sausage, both Andouille and Polish. Okay, time to go.
Stupid steps.....
Little Boy runs around the yard, I fold the duvet cover, and pop towels into the dryer, clothes into the washer. (Yes, all of my bath towels are dirty - and yes, I look like I need a shower!)
Man, I'm putting in a chair rail - I trip up the last three of the stupid nineteen steps, catching myself on my right palm, and left arm. Fun, fun, fun.....
Brown the chicken - vegetable oil. I never have vegetable oil, only olive oil. So I had to buy it, and was overwhelmed by all the choices. Vegetable oil, Crisco, okay - the chicken stuck to the damn pot, and splattered up - right onto my face. Yeah, so the F bomb came flying out - a couple of times! Chicken out, put into warm oven, time to begin. Roux .... flour into the oil until the color of hazelnuts, then veggies for another ten minutes. A scarce 1/4 cup water for roughly three cups of chopped and minced veggies. Suddenly the smells filling my house went from okay to orgasmic.
Add sausage and chicken, stir liberally - but carefully, so as to keep chicken on the bone. Add 2 quarts of water, come to boil. I added one quart of water, and the liquid seemed fine to me - I stopped there. Added pepper, cayenne, basil, fresh bay laurel leaves crushed (Chris Burroughs had given them to me as a house-warming gift in 2012 - so damn good!).
Boil achieved, lid on pot, fire off, time to go.
Stupid steps. Little Boy practically ripping my left arm from its socket in his eagerness to GO, LET'S GO! Those last four steps were taken in one jump.
Last load, fold towels, put clothes into dryer.
Damn I hate steps!
King Cake - I don't have enough sugar, so I stop and get more sugar, then go home to begin the cake. A yeast-based cake. It's 4:30. Party at 6. Yeast-based cake .... yeah, I didn't really follow through on this very well, huh?
Well, I get the cake assembled and set aside to rise, the file added (in two parts) to the gumbo, get me cleaned up, and by now it's 5:30.
I want a nap ....
Instead, I stir the gumbo again, and bones float up to the top. Hmm....what happened to keeping the chicken pieces whole? Well, that was moot .... the skin floated to the top, the bones kept surfacing - okay, I guess we're going boneless. I skimmed off oil during the course of the afternoon, fished out bones and skin, and by the time the dinner hour was upon us, only the King Cake remained to be shoved into the oven.
Susan Kucynda is the first to arrive - with red beans and rice. Because what would a true Cajun meal be without red beans and rice????? She and I catch up, enjoy a martini, and I'm still trying to finish the damn King Cake.
Chris and Ginny arrive, in two installments - Chris with food, Ginny with dogs. Tucker is delirious. They brought Mosby wines, and shrimp with remoulade sauce and rabbit sausage with Cajun spicey brown mustard. I served dirty martinis to accompany the appetizers - oh my god. I mean, really. Oh my god.
Keith and Kristen arrived bearing a beautiful salad. Kristen makes a salad look like a piece of art - and this was no exception. Beautiful, simply beautiful. For dressing, she offered up Lucien Delicate Shallot and Cucumber Creamy Dressing, a perfect match to the spices of the meal.
We were finally ready to eat - everyone served themselves. Bowl for gumbo, plate for red beans and rice and salad. Glass for wine, bourbon, or water, whatever your pleasure was (yep, martini hour was over). I bet you can't guess who had the bourbon.....
Dinner was amazing. Every layer of the meal, from four different houses, complemented the other beautifully.
We finished with the King Cake - and I didn't use a baby or a bean. I used a bullet - and that was the same day Lynn Martinis posted the book quote on my page about some girls carrying guns .... cracked me up!
The postscript to the bullet is even funnier. No one found it, which doesn't surprise me - the damn cake could have served 18 people, not just six. We broke up the rest of the cake trying to find the bullet, and none of us could find it. However, after I'd gone to bed, the Little Boy just couldn't resist the delicious yeasty goodness wafting through the air to his overly-sensitive nose, and he somehow managed to climb up onto the desk-cum-table and inhale the entire cake. On one side of my desk was the bullet, coated in spit and sugar. On the other side of my desk, the wall side, was a HUGE pile of his .... appreciation. Ugh.
However, the hours spent cleaning, prepping, cooking, the trips spent up and down those damn stairs, the two days spent cleaning up my mess in the kitchen .... I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Great great night - Happy Mardi Gras 2014!!!!
The day went like this: grocery shop at 9, while the first load of laundry gets washed downstairs. Back home, load wet clothes and dirty clothes into the Kia, put dog into back, and beat feet over to Chris & Ginny Burroughs house, where they were gracious enough to let me use their laundry equipment. Okay, dryer going, washer going, dog back in car, home to climb nineteen steps, and begin the prep work for the gumbo. But I couldn't really get to the prep work, because I couldn't get to the sink. First I had to clean my kitchen.
Loads changed, dog runs around back yard, home again, climbing those damn nineteen steps again with a load of clean sheets in my arms. Prep work can now begin. Green onions, onions, garlic, green pepper, parsley. Of all of that, I really only like garlic. Talk to a true Cajun, though, and you'll be told over and over the Holy Trinity of roux - garlic, onion, green pepper. Cut up chicken, slice ham, slice sausage, both Andouille and Polish. Okay, time to go.
Stupid steps.....
Little Boy runs around the yard, I fold the duvet cover, and pop towels into the dryer, clothes into the washer. (Yes, all of my bath towels are dirty - and yes, I look like I need a shower!)
Man, I'm putting in a chair rail - I trip up the last three of the stupid nineteen steps, catching myself on my right palm, and left arm. Fun, fun, fun.....
Brown the chicken - vegetable oil. I never have vegetable oil, only olive oil. So I had to buy it, and was overwhelmed by all the choices. Vegetable oil, Crisco, okay - the chicken stuck to the damn pot, and splattered up - right onto my face. Yeah, so the F bomb came flying out - a couple of times! Chicken out, put into warm oven, time to begin. Roux .... flour into the oil until the color of hazelnuts, then veggies for another ten minutes. A scarce 1/4 cup water for roughly three cups of chopped and minced veggies. Suddenly the smells filling my house went from okay to orgasmic.
Add sausage and chicken, stir liberally - but carefully, so as to keep chicken on the bone. Add 2 quarts of water, come to boil. I added one quart of water, and the liquid seemed fine to me - I stopped there. Added pepper, cayenne, basil, fresh bay laurel leaves crushed (Chris Burroughs had given them to me as a house-warming gift in 2012 - so damn good!).
Boil achieved, lid on pot, fire off, time to go.
Stupid steps. Little Boy practically ripping my left arm from its socket in his eagerness to GO, LET'S GO! Those last four steps were taken in one jump.
Last load, fold towels, put clothes into dryer.
Damn I hate steps!
King Cake - I don't have enough sugar, so I stop and get more sugar, then go home to begin the cake. A yeast-based cake. It's 4:30. Party at 6. Yeast-based cake .... yeah, I didn't really follow through on this very well, huh?
Well, I get the cake assembled and set aside to rise, the file added (in two parts) to the gumbo, get me cleaned up, and by now it's 5:30.
I want a nap ....
Instead, I stir the gumbo again, and bones float up to the top. Hmm....what happened to keeping the chicken pieces whole? Well, that was moot .... the skin floated to the top, the bones kept surfacing - okay, I guess we're going boneless. I skimmed off oil during the course of the afternoon, fished out bones and skin, and by the time the dinner hour was upon us, only the King Cake remained to be shoved into the oven.
Susan Kucynda is the first to arrive - with red beans and rice. Because what would a true Cajun meal be without red beans and rice????? She and I catch up, enjoy a martini, and I'm still trying to finish the damn King Cake.
Chris and Ginny arrive, in two installments - Chris with food, Ginny with dogs. Tucker is delirious. They brought Mosby wines, and shrimp with remoulade sauce and rabbit sausage with Cajun spicey brown mustard. I served dirty martinis to accompany the appetizers - oh my god. I mean, really. Oh my god.
Keith and Kristen arrived bearing a beautiful salad. Kristen makes a salad look like a piece of art - and this was no exception. Beautiful, simply beautiful. For dressing, she offered up Lucien Delicate Shallot and Cucumber Creamy Dressing, a perfect match to the spices of the meal.
We were finally ready to eat - everyone served themselves. Bowl for gumbo, plate for red beans and rice and salad. Glass for wine, bourbon, or water, whatever your pleasure was (yep, martini hour was over). I bet you can't guess who had the bourbon.....
Dinner was amazing. Every layer of the meal, from four different houses, complemented the other beautifully.
We finished with the King Cake - and I didn't use a baby or a bean. I used a bullet - and that was the same day Lynn Martinis posted the book quote on my page about some girls carrying guns .... cracked me up!
The postscript to the bullet is even funnier. No one found it, which doesn't surprise me - the damn cake could have served 18 people, not just six. We broke up the rest of the cake trying to find the bullet, and none of us could find it. However, after I'd gone to bed, the Little Boy just couldn't resist the delicious yeasty goodness wafting through the air to his overly-sensitive nose, and he somehow managed to climb up onto the desk-cum-table and inhale the entire cake. On one side of my desk was the bullet, coated in spit and sugar. On the other side of my desk, the wall side, was a HUGE pile of his .... appreciation. Ugh.
However, the hours spent cleaning, prepping, cooking, the trips spent up and down those damn stairs, the two days spent cleaning up my mess in the kitchen .... I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Great great night - Happy Mardi Gras 2014!!!!
Remembered Moments ....
I had an email exchange with a business associate who is becoming more of a friend; quirky sense of humor, wicked good taste in food, and he has a Golden. All in all, I figure he's a good guy. I had closed out my email to him with a movie quote, and when I stopped in the office this fine Saturday morning for some files, I checked my work email and discovered he'd answered me. His comment? 'Great movie....' Yeah, well, more than twenty minutes had passed since I'd sent him that email, so I had NO clue as to what he was referring. I scrolled down in the exchange, and saw the following quote:
'You're killin' me, Smalls!'
Now, for those of you who know this movie, you know it's probably one of the top three 'coming of age' movies out there, ranking right up with 'Stand By Me' and 'The Christmas Story'. Fabulous film of a young pre-teen boy coming into his own, making friends, learning about life. For those of you not familiar with the movie 'Sandlot', Smalls is the last name of the newbie on the block, trying desperately to make friends in the summertime. Remember summertime? When you played with your buds from school, and didn't bother with anyone you didn't know, except to mock and belittle? Yes, well, that's the world he walked into. The 'sandlot kids' take him under their wing, a group of misfits who live for one thing - baseball. Hanging out in the treehouse one particular night, one of the boys says to Smalls: 'want a smore?' to which Smalls replies, 'more what?', and the boy says ' a smore!' in a tone implying idiot. Confused, Smalls looks at the boy and, with great dignity (remember, still a newbie), says, 'how can I have more, if I haven't had any?' The boy looks at him, shakes his head, and says, 'You're killin' me, Smalls.'
And when my buddy replied that it was a great movie, I got to thinking about growing up, the things we did to entertain ourselves. If we wanted s'mores, we couldn't go to the cookie aisle in the grocery store. No, we had to go to the cracker aisle, buy the graham crackers, hunt down the 'mallow (marshmallows), buy the Hershey's Chocolate bar (and you know only Hershey would do), and then we had to convince someone, one of the big people, to let us build a fire out by the creek, or better yet, convince our parents to take us camping. Only then, after we'd been eaten alive by bugs, fallen out of trees, nearly drowned one another in our swimming in the creek excursions - only then, under the night sky brilliant with moon and stars, firelight dancing high into the night, and only then, could we enjoy a s'more. Half the enjoyment - okay, most of the enjoyment - was in the anticipation of the treat. Piece by piece, it had to be built, created from nothing. The buy-in of the big people was the beginning .... the night ending with sticky fingers, chocolate around the mouth, graham cracker crumbs dotting the sleeping bags, and dogs licking any small hand they could find .... that was the final payoff.
That got me to thinking about all the other things we did, without safety nets, without the consumer republic there to help us satisfy our every whim and urge. Swimming downstream in the creek one summer, in a still wading pool, coming out to find our feet still black with sand. Okay, we'll go rinse them off again. Still black. The still wading pool was a breeding ground for leeches. I'm not sure which of us screamed louder, me, my two little sisters, or my brother. Literally, our feet were black. We stayed upstream, in the current, after that. Diving off a tree limb into the creek, learning quickly that you must dive shallow, or risk a severe head injury. Riding on the bar of a bicycle, to get thrown off, smash your head into the ground hard enough to have pebbles picked out of your ear for over an hour by the family physician. Halloween, when it was safe to eat the candy. There was a woman who went all out, every year, for the kids. She opened her home, dressed as a witch, and would bring us in in groups to bob for apples and be generally terrorized. Man, we looked forward to that night from the moment school started up in September.
Summers we would spend with my grandparents, still living in the house my mother finished her growing up years, in the Pittsburgh, PA area. And the first thing my father would do, once we crossed into Pennsylvania, was to stop at a corner grocery and send one of the kids in for Krispy Klondikes. Best ice cream on the planet, or so we believed as kids. You could only buy Krispy Klondikes in Pennsylvania. We didn't have a drivers' license. So, rather like the s'mores, the anticipation of this treat began the moment our parents told us the dates of our summer with Grandma. Was it the best ice cream on the planet? Probably not - although it is pretty darn good. It was the anticipation of an infrequent treat that jacked this really good ice cream up into the stratosphere. I was living in Houston, married but no daughter yet, when I stopped in the middle of the frozen food section, staring in disbelief, then gaping in astonishment, then grinning with joy. There, in the middle of the frozen food section, was the best ice cream on the planet - yep, Krispy Klondikes! I bought the six-pack, took it home, gave one to my husband and said, 'You've got to try this!', all the while unwrapping my own. After devouring the square of vanilla ice-cream covered with rich chocolate with rice krispies embedded in it, I called home to Cleveland Ohio. My dad answered the phone, and I just burst out: 'Dad, Dad, I had a Krispy Klondike!' to which my father replied, 'That's nice, honey. Did you want to talk with your mother?' and just like that, I was ten again, and we were driving down Central, Pittsburgh's answer to Lombard Street in San Francisco, Dad's big Cadillac slamming down in the dips, flying up into never-never land with each rising hill.
All these memories, triggered by food. It's never the food - it's the day, the moment, the life wrapped around that food. Making s'mores during our winter picnic, my mother and sister Jenny sitting in the car, heater running full blast, the rest of us playing in the snow as if it were high summer. My father taking us around Pittsburgh to show us his haunts when he'd been a young boy - the trip beginning, of course, with Krispy Klondikes.
Cherish those moments, when the light changes, and a heaviness comes to you. Those moments will sustain you in the dark. Trust me on this.
'You're killin' me, Smalls!'
Now, for those of you who know this movie, you know it's probably one of the top three 'coming of age' movies out there, ranking right up with 'Stand By Me' and 'The Christmas Story'. Fabulous film of a young pre-teen boy coming into his own, making friends, learning about life. For those of you not familiar with the movie 'Sandlot', Smalls is the last name of the newbie on the block, trying desperately to make friends in the summertime. Remember summertime? When you played with your buds from school, and didn't bother with anyone you didn't know, except to mock and belittle? Yes, well, that's the world he walked into. The 'sandlot kids' take him under their wing, a group of misfits who live for one thing - baseball. Hanging out in the treehouse one particular night, one of the boys says to Smalls: 'want a smore?' to which Smalls replies, 'more what?', and the boy says ' a smore!' in a tone implying idiot. Confused, Smalls looks at the boy and, with great dignity (remember, still a newbie), says, 'how can I have more, if I haven't had any?' The boy looks at him, shakes his head, and says, 'You're killin' me, Smalls.'
And when my buddy replied that it was a great movie, I got to thinking about growing up, the things we did to entertain ourselves. If we wanted s'mores, we couldn't go to the cookie aisle in the grocery store. No, we had to go to the cracker aisle, buy the graham crackers, hunt down the 'mallow (marshmallows), buy the Hershey's Chocolate bar (and you know only Hershey would do), and then we had to convince someone, one of the big people, to let us build a fire out by the creek, or better yet, convince our parents to take us camping. Only then, after we'd been eaten alive by bugs, fallen out of trees, nearly drowned one another in our swimming in the creek excursions - only then, under the night sky brilliant with moon and stars, firelight dancing high into the night, and only then, could we enjoy a s'more. Half the enjoyment - okay, most of the enjoyment - was in the anticipation of the treat. Piece by piece, it had to be built, created from nothing. The buy-in of the big people was the beginning .... the night ending with sticky fingers, chocolate around the mouth, graham cracker crumbs dotting the sleeping bags, and dogs licking any small hand they could find .... that was the final payoff.
That got me to thinking about all the other things we did, without safety nets, without the consumer republic there to help us satisfy our every whim and urge. Swimming downstream in the creek one summer, in a still wading pool, coming out to find our feet still black with sand. Okay, we'll go rinse them off again. Still black. The still wading pool was a breeding ground for leeches. I'm not sure which of us screamed louder, me, my two little sisters, or my brother. Literally, our feet were black. We stayed upstream, in the current, after that. Diving off a tree limb into the creek, learning quickly that you must dive shallow, or risk a severe head injury. Riding on the bar of a bicycle, to get thrown off, smash your head into the ground hard enough to have pebbles picked out of your ear for over an hour by the family physician. Halloween, when it was safe to eat the candy. There was a woman who went all out, every year, for the kids. She opened her home, dressed as a witch, and would bring us in in groups to bob for apples and be generally terrorized. Man, we looked forward to that night from the moment school started up in September.
Summers we would spend with my grandparents, still living in the house my mother finished her growing up years, in the Pittsburgh, PA area. And the first thing my father would do, once we crossed into Pennsylvania, was to stop at a corner grocery and send one of the kids in for Krispy Klondikes. Best ice cream on the planet, or so we believed as kids. You could only buy Krispy Klondikes in Pennsylvania. We didn't have a drivers' license. So, rather like the s'mores, the anticipation of this treat began the moment our parents told us the dates of our summer with Grandma. Was it the best ice cream on the planet? Probably not - although it is pretty darn good. It was the anticipation of an infrequent treat that jacked this really good ice cream up into the stratosphere. I was living in Houston, married but no daughter yet, when I stopped in the middle of the frozen food section, staring in disbelief, then gaping in astonishment, then grinning with joy. There, in the middle of the frozen food section, was the best ice cream on the planet - yep, Krispy Klondikes! I bought the six-pack, took it home, gave one to my husband and said, 'You've got to try this!', all the while unwrapping my own. After devouring the square of vanilla ice-cream covered with rich chocolate with rice krispies embedded in it, I called home to Cleveland Ohio. My dad answered the phone, and I just burst out: 'Dad, Dad, I had a Krispy Klondike!' to which my father replied, 'That's nice, honey. Did you want to talk with your mother?' and just like that, I was ten again, and we were driving down Central, Pittsburgh's answer to Lombard Street in San Francisco, Dad's big Cadillac slamming down in the dips, flying up into never-never land with each rising hill.
All these memories, triggered by food. It's never the food - it's the day, the moment, the life wrapped around that food. Making s'mores during our winter picnic, my mother and sister Jenny sitting in the car, heater running full blast, the rest of us playing in the snow as if it were high summer. My father taking us around Pittsburgh to show us his haunts when he'd been a young boy - the trip beginning, of course, with Krispy Klondikes.
Cherish those moments, when the light changes, and a heaviness comes to you. Those moments will sustain you in the dark. Trust me on this.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
3, 2, We Are Live!
I stepped WAAAYYY outside of my comfort zone last night ... and the stepping out began about two weeks ago. A local, Al Chavez, routinely posts events on his Facebook page. I get his notifications. I don't often attend anything, but when I saw that Jeff Bridges and the Abiders were coming back to the Maverick, I immediately called for ticket pricing. At $40 a ticket, I thought it would be criminal not to go. Hmm ... didn't really want to go alone. I mean, I could, sure, I'm a grown girl - how hard could it be to walk in to a bar-cum-concert hall, order a drink, find a seat, and enjoy live music? Well, not very difficult at all. Still, I would be MUCH more comfortable if someone I knew were with me. But who did I want that someone to be?????
I tapped my daughter's father, David. We've been apart for a LOT longer than we were together - but have remained friends. Not the sort of friends who see each other all the time, but we certainly are clued in to one another's lives. I told him what was happening, and he said if he could get a dog sitter, he was all in. Anna came through for him, and he headed north.
Keith and Kristen joined us for dinner, with all parties contributing to the dinner. Simple fare, steak, potatoes au grautin, a delicious salad, and a Pinot Noir and a Cab Sav. Kristen brought cookies from a recipe her daughter created that morning, and we finished the meal with white chocolate-macadamian nut cookies. Pretty darn good, too.
Before I even realized it, it was 8:30 and time to walk down to the Maverick. We were four rows from the front, on the far left side of the room. (Just an aside: being that I am deaf in my left ear - to human sounds - so weird!, I always gravitate to that side, so that my ear is to the world, if you will.) The five of us - me, David, my girlfriend Annmarie (in LA from Nashville - how cool is THAT?!) and her two friends - took up most of that row.
The crowd was rowdy, excited, joy-infused. Well, most of us were, at any rate. I got up to dance, and glanced at the couple in the row behind ours ... the woman was asleep! How she managed to do that is beyond me, but there she was, peacefully sleeping. Amazing.
I hadn't danced anywhere other than my home in years. Literally. Man, it was a blast! Even got Annmarie to get up and dance with me for a few minutes. She was wearing these amazing boots ... I'm sure hand-stitched, pieces of red dancing all over them. She fit in as if she were born to Santa Ynez. Me? I was in stilettos and jeans, a black sleeveless top. Not exactly born to Santa Ynez .... but I didn't care. It was entirely too much fun to be there.
As I was climbing back into my seat from the wild dance, it dawned on me - this was the first uninhibited outing I'd had in .... well, I couldn't remember back that far. And I vowed, right then and there, to make it the first of many to come.
I'm not sure if the world is ready for me to 'come out of the closet', if you will .... but I am! Look out!!
I tapped my daughter's father, David. We've been apart for a LOT longer than we were together - but have remained friends. Not the sort of friends who see each other all the time, but we certainly are clued in to one another's lives. I told him what was happening, and he said if he could get a dog sitter, he was all in. Anna came through for him, and he headed north.
Keith and Kristen joined us for dinner, with all parties contributing to the dinner. Simple fare, steak, potatoes au grautin, a delicious salad, and a Pinot Noir and a Cab Sav. Kristen brought cookies from a recipe her daughter created that morning, and we finished the meal with white chocolate-macadamian nut cookies. Pretty darn good, too.
Before I even realized it, it was 8:30 and time to walk down to the Maverick. We were four rows from the front, on the far left side of the room. (Just an aside: being that I am deaf in my left ear - to human sounds - so weird!, I always gravitate to that side, so that my ear is to the world, if you will.) The five of us - me, David, my girlfriend Annmarie (in LA from Nashville - how cool is THAT?!) and her two friends - took up most of that row.
The crowd was rowdy, excited, joy-infused. Well, most of us were, at any rate. I got up to dance, and glanced at the couple in the row behind ours ... the woman was asleep! How she managed to do that is beyond me, but there she was, peacefully sleeping. Amazing.
I hadn't danced anywhere other than my home in years. Literally. Man, it was a blast! Even got Annmarie to get up and dance with me for a few minutes. She was wearing these amazing boots ... I'm sure hand-stitched, pieces of red dancing all over them. She fit in as if she were born to Santa Ynez. Me? I was in stilettos and jeans, a black sleeveless top. Not exactly born to Santa Ynez .... but I didn't care. It was entirely too much fun to be there.
As I was climbing back into my seat from the wild dance, it dawned on me - this was the first uninhibited outing I'd had in .... well, I couldn't remember back that far. And I vowed, right then and there, to make it the first of many to come.
I'm not sure if the world is ready for me to 'come out of the closet', if you will .... but I am! Look out!!
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